Chapter Fifteen

Her father, once again, was leaving.

Early on a rainy morning, Willy stood in the bedroom doorway and watched him pack his suitcase, the way she'd watched him pack it long ago. She'd had him home such a short time, only a few days since his release from the hospital. And he'd spent every moment pining for his family-his other family. Oh, he hadn't complained or been unkind, but she'd seen the sadness in his gaze, heard his sighs as he'd wandered about the house. She'd known it was inevitable: that he'd be walking out of her life again.

He took one last look in the closet, then turned to the dresser.

She glanced down at a pair of brand-new loafers that he'd set aside in the closet. "Dad, aren't you taking your shoes?" she asked.

"At home, I don't wear shoes."

"Oh." This used to be your home, she thought.

She wandered into the living room, sat down by the window and stared out at the rain. It seemed as if a lifetime of sorrow had been crammed into these past two weeks she'd been home. While her father had recuperated in a military hospital, in a civilian hospital a few miles away, her mother had lain dying. It had been wrenching to drive back and forth between them, to shift from seeing her father regain his strength to seeing her mother fade. Ann's death had come more quickly than the doctors had predicted; it was almost as if she'd held on just long enough to see her husband one last time, then had allowed herself to quietly slip away.

She'd forgiven him, of course.

Just as Willy had forgiven him.

Why was it always women who had to do the forgiving? she'd wondered.

"I'm all packed," her father said, carrying his suitcase into the living room. "I've called a cab."

"Are you sure you've got everything? The kids' toys? The books?"

"It's all in here. What a delivery! They're going to think I'm Santa Claus.'' He set the suitcase down and sat on the couch. They didn't speak for a moment.

"You won't be coming back, will you?" she said at last.

"It may not be easy."

"May I come see you?"

"Willy, you know you can! Both you and Guy. And next time, we'll make it a decent visit." He laughed. "Nice and quiet and dull. Guy'll appreciate that."

There was a long silence. Her father asked, "Have you spoken to him lately?"

She looked away. "It's been two weeks."

"That long?"

"He hasn't called."

"Why haven't you called him?"

"I've been busy. A lot of things to take care of. But you know that."

"He doesn't."

"Well, he ought to know." Suddenly agitated, she rose and paced the room, finally returning to the window. "I'm not really surprised he hasn't called. After all, we had our little adventure, and now it's back to life as usual." She glanced at her father. "Men hate that, don't they? Life as usual."

"Some men do. On the other hand, some of us change."

"Oh, Dad, I've been around the block. I can tell when things are over."

"Did Guy say that?"

She turned and gazed back out the window. "He didn't have to."

Her father didn't comment. After a while, she heard him go back into the bedroom, but she didn't move. She just kept staring out at the rain, thinking about Guy. Wondering for the first time if maybe she had done the running away.

No, it wasn't running. It was facing reality. Together they'd had the time of their lives, a crazy week of emotions gone wild, of terror and exhilaration, when every breath, every heartbeat had seemed like a gift from God.

Of course, it hadn't lasted.

But whose fault was that?

She felt herself drawn almost against her will to the telephone. Even as she dialed his number, she wondered what she'd say to him. Hello, Guy. I know you don't want to hear this, but I love you. Then she'd hang up and spare him the ordeal of admitting the feeling wasn't mutual. She let it ring twelve times, knowing it was 4:00 a.m. in Honolulu, knowing he should be home.

There were tears in her eyes when she finally hung up. She stood staring down at the phone, wondering how that inanimate collection of wires and plastic could leave her feeling so betrayed. Damn you, she thought. You never even gave me the chance to make a fool of myself.

The sound of tires splashing across wet streets made her look out the window. Through pouring rain she saw a cab pull up at the curb.

"Dad?" she called. She went to her father's bedroom. "Your taxi's here."

"Already?" He glanced around to see if he'd forgotten anything. "Okay. I guess this is it, then."

The doorbell rang. He threw on his raincoat and strode across the living room. Willy wasn't watching as he opened the door, but she heard him say, "I don't believe it." She turned.

"Hello, Maitland," said Guy.

The two men, both wearing raincoats, both holding suitcases, grinned at each other across the threshold.

Guy shook the raindrops from his hair. "Mind if I come in?"

"Gee, I don't know. I'd better ask the boss." Maitland turned to his daughter. "What do you think? Can the man come in?"

Willy was too stunned to say a word.

"I guess that's a yes," her father said, and he motioned for Guy to enter.

Guy stepped over the threshold and set his suitcase down. Then he just stood there, looking at her. Rain had plastered his hair to his forehead, lines of exhaustion mapped his face, but no man had ever looked so wonderful. She tried to remind herself of all the reasons she didn't want to see him, all the reasons she should throw him out into the rain. But she couldn't seem to find her voice. She could only stare at him in wonder and remember how it had felt to be in his arms.

Maitland shuffled uneasily. "I… uh… I think I forgot to pack something," he muttered, and he discreetly vanished into the bedroom.

For a moment, the only sound was the water dripping from Guy's raincoat onto the wood floor.

"How's your mother?" Guy asked.

"She died, five days ago."

He shook his head. "Willy, I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry, too."

"How are you? Are you okay?"

"I'm… fine." She looked away. J love you, she thought. And yet here we are, two strangers engaging in small talk. "Yeah, I'm fine," she repeated, as though to convince him-to convince herself-that the anguish of these past two weeks had been a minor ache not worth mentioning.

"You look pretty good, considering."

She shrugged. "You look terrible."

"Not too surprising. Didn't get any sleep on the plane. And there was this baby screaming in the next seat, all the way from Bangkok."

"Bangkok?" She frowned. "You were in Bangkok?"

He nodded and laughed. "It's this crazy business I'm in. Got home from Nam, and a week later, they asked me to fly back… for Sam Lassiter." He paused. "I admit I wasn't thrilled about getting on another plane, but I figured it was something I had to do." He paused and added quietly, "No soldier should have to come home alone."

She thought about Lassiter, about that evening in the river cafe, the love song scratching from the record player, the paper lanterns fluttering in the wind. She thought about his body drifting in the waters of the Mekong. And she thought about the dark-eyed woman who'd loved him. "You're right," she said. "No soldier should have to come home alone."

There was another pause. She felt him watching her, waiting.

''You could have called me," she said.

"I wanted to."

"But you never got the chance, right?"

"I had plenty of chances."

"But you didn't bother?" She looked up. All the hurt, all the rage suddenly rose to the surface. "Two weeks with no word from you! And here you have the gall to show up unannounced, walk in my door and drop your damn suitcase in my living-"